


Magnum Opus

by KennyCosgrove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Genocide, Meta, Other, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KennyCosgrove/pseuds/KennyCosgrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God's children must die, God must die, and what becomes of Death, when there is nothing left? Death promised the Leviathan he would save them, as he gave them every ounce of compassion he could have possibly withheld, as there was no one else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnum Opus

**Author's Note:**

> Vague hints of my otp Dick Roman/Death if you squint. Meta.

God became cruel and unforgiving, today. Wondrous in retrospect, worshiped, praised as the giving one, the righteous, the honest, so full of love for those who gave such devotion unto him. How is it, that when humans worship God, their creator, their parent, it is just, and yet if one human or one creature or anything were to be worshiped otherwise, it is sacrilege Mysterious things, children of God. It is the only thing they know upon being brought into this world, God is apparent and God exists and there is no other reasoning for which their existence is such. And yet his absence proves ironic for them - they give their lives and sacrifices and killing themselves and each other for this absent father, and yet he says nary a peep. His angels, they are held in alignment by the fear of his wrath, his control to which they succumb to without even the slightest notion otherwise - because they were created to obey. Just as humans, were created to obey. Faulty programming from the Leviathan, certainly. For it is why he had shut them away, opened the door to Purgatory, his first children that he had banished and slid their pieces from his playing board at their first adaptation of their free will. The will of angels and the will of humans is determined by God, for even if they question him, even if they are doubtful of him, there are others who are not - the others that will deliver their punishments upon them in place of him, while precious father is away. The Leviathan only knew one thing, that it was each other, and it was to survive. God had given them hope, affection, and the fight to survive, and yet his control over them was finite. Perhaps that was why Death admired them, their simple road to happiness, to be, to live amongst each other - no question as to why, no ego of their father to stroke, God felt the desire to control, God needed to control his children, just as any parent holds in an ideal upbringing. 

So he shuts them away, and they ask why, to which he does not answer, to which he cannot answer - a failed figure he is, just as they were in the eyes of their Lord and father. 

Space is very dark, space is infinite, not created by God, not created by anyone - the universe merely was, and so it merely would be. God would create unto it, like a canvas, Death following close behind to sweep up after him, just as Death had done even before God would create - whether it be the truth or not, it didn’t matter, Death still did just that, just as he always had for eternity, and so he always would, for eternity. He gave God rain, he gave God storms, he gave God earthquakes, he gave God change unto his perfect world. And yet God’s children would create their own demise - whether through their ignorance or creation or their own foolishness, they would embrace this, they would divulge unto their savagery for their beliefs unto their Lord, and Death would yet still be close behind, reaping and delivering unto Heaven and Hell- the way he saw it, once he was called to service, a prison would wait the soul in either respect. Free will or not, control and worship of a God or not, a prison would wait.

And yet where does that leave Death? Who will reap Death? The only one who could possibly do so is himself - to which he has been breaching the lines of his will, and of his existence, an empty bit of nothing, was he? Where would he be led? Would there be nothing? It seemed he had been dangerously close to finding out, as strange as it sounded - ripped and torn from his own person, almost quite literally, his gaunt exterior gray and white - eviscerated, now, his middle held nothing, a chasm of darkness that would seem to lead somewhere, his carefully tailored clothes stricken a stark red and black, his cane carefully held his thin frame, all skin and bone now, almost quite literally- he didn’t even know what he himself was. 

‘Why does my father hold me here? Does he not value us? Are we not his magnum opus?’ Banished into a wasteland of isolation, a prison for creation that is to be chastised from the eyes of God. Not without sacrifice does God continue to create, but does God harbor regret? Does God hold remorse for which he could not repair? 

‘Even God will breach comeuppance, gentle one. Perhaps not this day, or the next, but his such end shall be held at my hands as to be determined by his fate, for this, I promise.’

‘Will God die? Such as his other children? Such as his angels do?’ 

‘An end comes to us all, gentle one, for this, it is certain, as it is my promise to you.’ 

Walls had crumbled without abandon on islands and in cities with dust in their corners, suffering and fear consuming them. Tedious, it was, finding the ones that did not want to be found, God, especially. When push came to shove and he would be sought in ways he could never imagine, finding him amongst the flock of his children was the ideal beginning. The eviscerated one, gored and left for naught by which he had been given, he was infinite, and yet was dying a cruel, true, death, just as himself. Feared and abandoned alone, God had delivered such a curse for him unto his children, to fear Death, to fear an end, for which they would breach a prison when their life met its end. They would meet Death, but if heaven was such to be sought, why fear an end? To seek an end was punishment, it proved God wrong, it made his children flawed, and so they were to be sentenced to Hell, for proving God imperfect. Trial and error, the humans would be his prized possessions, his grand creations, until something better came along. There was a trend in this, from God. 

Humans turned their eyes away from Death as he would approach, seeking God, seeking this mad fool that had created this chaos, allowing the toppling and experimentation of his children to continue in suffering and cataclysm, as he would watch from afar. Death cursed himself - all-powerful and infinite, and yet he cannot find one God, one almighty all knowing, all powerful God - his time was up. This could go on no longer, his lack of management and organization and will to tend to his savage children would make no difference were he to be dead and trapped within his own suffering, just as Death was. 

Death was on the brink of existence, blood and blackness would pour from him like a leper, his teeth and nails rotting and falling from his person, his form could only be retained for so long as while he was suffering - God created the gift of love, he gave it unto Death, and it was slowly corroding away and festering within his form like Hell would be unleashed from within him. Love was a cancer for Death, screaming in terror with the voices of the unfulfilled and suffering, carefully plucked from the thread of time and existence and embedded into his form for lack of love, that which God had given him - it was the scapegoat, the fail-safe, when he knew Death had come to close - God would strive on, he knew when his time to expire was fast approaching, this virus unto Death would grow and destroy him, forbidding any and all Death to be delivered otherwise. All for God to survive, to continue with his trial and error, at the suffering of his children. 

Purpose had been delivered unto Death for God’s dying, finding him alone in a bar, he knew he was there- God had known he was coming, he could only have fought and run for so far - you cannot cheat Death, even God, now. You embrace this disease I have delivered unto you meant for my children, he would tell him, and here you are to deliver unto me the fury that has born from it. You are no longer the neutral figure that you had birthed unto yourself, a bias has corroded you. God speaks to Death as he would a disappointed parent, as Death is not his child. God did not create Death, in comparison, Death is the very equal to God, and yet his children have taught him to be feared. 

‘I will not die here today, you will not reap me, today.’

‘And yet I have found you, here, you let me find you, you could have run for billions of years, you could have let your insolent children eat each other alive, you could have let my brothers destroy your Earth, destroy your children, and yet here I am, meeting you.’ his voice was hollow, caging the lost souls within his person, grasping at his throat as blood and darkness and the end would continue to pour from him as his eyes had been stricken from his skull, now. The building would cave in this place, God’s constructed hiding place, and he could not vanish, Death held him here, now, he was in his land, his territory, right in front of him the entire time, and yet so strategically placed, liquor in hand, driven to his knees. For what could he do to fight Death? What more could he possibly withstand from Death itself, after all of this running? The form of God had fallen as Death lifted his head, gripping his throat so tightly, watching every light and every soul and every idea within him disappear, dissipate into nothing, banished into chaos and darkness and the unknown and into space where it could never be recovered. Everywhere Death had never explored, everywhere he had never ventured for souls or for curiosity or for this damnedable God, the light fell from God’s eyes as they fell from their stems in his sockets. Death’s hands, red and bloody as the life left God before him, not even skin, not even bone he was, the burning that God delivered unto his demise as a hollow rasp escaped him, Death’s hands turning black, his form continued to fight against the savage before him before there was nothing. No essence, no spirit, no soul, no remembrance, no hope, no faith - There was nothing. Everything there was, before there was a God, had turned into just that absolute nothing. A sheltered scream had left Death’s person, the power and the light and the fire that continued to eat away at his form burned him asunder. He was surrounded by whiteness, he was nowhere, he was underneath the floors of limbo and God was dead. God was dead at his hand, and there was nothing, nothing but Death and the ash of his throat. He would need to recover, he would need to restrain himself now his promise had been met, and yet everything would continue to eat away at him - a pain and a suffering and a punishment reserved for Death, just as delivered by God. And yet here he was. Standing from the white floor, his jaw fell from his skull, falling, infinitely, blood trailing behind it as he watched it - he felt nothing, his form was a shell, now, and God was dead.

He would return to Earth, he would return to Earth, his form existing in another until his was recovered, watching from afar, as he often had, as what he would be left with - and yet everything had been shifted - so unsettled from the mechanics of the universe. No one had a single thought into the possibility of the death of God. And yet, he was, and they would know. The angels would panic, they would run and incapacitate him for abolishing their father, the humans would be never the wiser, and Death’s word would slip through the grapevine, a promise kept.


End file.
